


SoulxMaka Week 2016

by kittenintheden



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon - Manga, F/M, Fluff, One Shot Collection, Theme Week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 07:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6648910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenintheden/pseuds/kittenintheden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots written for SoulxMaka Week 2016. Contains lots of fluff, probably. Some canonverse, some AU. Themes: Types of Kisses, Can't Sleep, Stuck in the Rain, Ink, Red String of Destiny, Feisty, Just Kiss Already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Types of Kisses

Before she was, kisses started everything.

When she was born, kisses were promises followed by happy tears.

When she was three, kisses were tickles lavished on her by Mama and Papa, peppered over round cheeks until they all collapsed in fits of giggles.

When she was six, kisses made her wrinkle her nose and stick out her tongue. Her parents did it too often for her liking, her Auntie Marie left lipstick on her forehead. Black Star tried it once on a dare and his black eye didn’t fade for three days.

When she was ten, kisses betrayed. They were stolen, secret. Poison. Leaking into her life in whispered fights in the dead of night, crystal-clear through the thin apartment walls. Then Mama left, and the only kisses she wanted were nonexistent.

When she was twelve, kisses were pointless. She had kishin eggs to collect, a class hierarchy to climb, an overdressed weapon to wrangle. No room for anything so pedestrian. No sense risking poison.

When she was fourteen, kisses dusted her cheeks in pink. She averted her eyes from sweethearts, annoyed, snarky, scared. A spark ricocheted inside her soul and she dreamt of careful mouths shielding sharp teeth. Her skin prickled and she layered on more armor.

When she was sixteen, the lack of kisses burned. Like a flickering candle in a dark room, seeking something to illuminate. Her lips ached for it and it made her ashamed. Bigger things took precedence. The world went mad. She felt she might go mad along with it, if not for the music.

When she was eighteen, kisses were explosions in the star-scattered sky, finally igniting in the atmosphere again, again, again. Soulsong and awkward angles and cut lips. Fingertips and laughter and the joy of another day alive, together.

When she was twenty, kisses laced fire through every vein. Slow, practiced, all-knowing. Teeth and tongue. More than kisses, more than love, more than everything. Skin on skin, soul to soul.

When she was twenty-six, a kiss sealed a contract in a courthouse.

When she was twenty-nine, kisses were promises followed by happy tears and a tiny, new wail.

When she was thirty-five, kisses were home.

When she was fifty, kisses were welcome back, I love you, I’ll miss you, I’m so glad you’re here with me, goodbye. We’re getting too old for this. Don’t scare me like that again. We should go see the kids.

When she was eighty, kisses were soft and dry like old linen paper, lined with a lifetime of stories and sorrows and loves.

After she was, kisses were atoms scattered to the corners of the universe, finding each other over and again, until eternity came and went.


	2. Can't Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous street artist AU. This one went rogue.

Maka couldn't sleep. The sputtering radiator in the apartment was on the fritz, making all nature of hellish whistling and rattling. Her room would get stuffy as the armpit of hell until she kicked off her mountain of quilts, then plunge in temperature until her teeth chattered and she bundled up again. Rinse, repeat, flail in fury.

It didn't help at all that Kim's girlfriend was spending the night again. Jackie did her very best to be courteous and quiet, but Kim always took it as a personal challenge, and the walls were paper thin.

The piercing glow of her phone's screen told her it was 1:36am and she gave up. Sleep would not come. But god damn it, if she couldn't have sleep, she would have ice cream. It might be close to freezing outside, but that never stopped her. Sweet treats should be cold.

She rolled out of bed and shivered her way over to her dresser, threw on whatever she grabbed first, laced up her boots, and headed for the door. No point in sneaking; Jackie and Kim were too preoccupied to notice anything but each other.

Maka's breath puffed out in clouds as she grumbled her way down the street, tightening her scarf around her neck as she stomped toward the nearest 24-hour quick mart. She was preoccupied with her fuming that she nearly missed the faint hiss issuing from the alley next to the market. The sound paused and so did she. Had she imagined it?

No, there it was again. Hiss, pause. Hiss, hiss, pause. Her tired brain conjured up a snake, huge and grinning, and she shook the thought away and told her brain to shut up. A rattle sounded from around the corner and her curiosity mounted. Very carefully, she crept toward the mouth of the alley, her heart thumping at the base of her throat.

In the thousand scenarios that played out in her head, she hadn't expected this one. A quarter of the way down the alley, a figure stood huddled next to the wall, a red beanie pulled low over their head. They wore a garish yellow and black jacket, and Maka swallowed back a snort. Then they raised their hand, and the sound became clear.

Paint hissed out of a spray can, leaving a streak of blue on the wall. Instantly, Maka's teeth grit together in anger. She liked this poor shop owner, who'd have to pay to have this tagger's stupid graffiti covered up. Without even thinking twice, she stepped into the alley.

"Hey," she barked. "What do you think you're doing?"

The tagger startled so badly that they dropped their paint can. It clattered against the ground and she caught just enough of the person's face in the low light to catch a glint of very fair stubble. Then he bolted deeper into the alley.

"Asshole," she muttered, and immediately followed. Ten summers working at your dad's P.I. business teaches you a few things your overprotective father inevitably scolds you for, like chasing after known criminals in the middle of the night.

The guy ran directly for a chain link fence blocking off the rest of the alley and took a flying leap to scale it. By the time she got there, he'd already hit the ground on the other side. She made to follow, but her boots slipped against the links, too bulky for her to find purchase.

"Stop!" she yelled, and to her very great surprise, he did. He stood just outside the ring of light reflecting from a nearby building and she couldn't make out his face as he looked back at her.

"Get your ass back here and answer for what you did to Blair's shop!" she said.

He laughed. "I'll pass, Cankles. Trust me, she'll be glad for it."

"Cankles? You paint-huffing troglodyte, _I will end you._ " She attempted to pull herself up over the fence with arm strength alone, and did a considerable job of it before the tagger began backing away again.

"Not today," he said, giving her a mocking salute before turning to run off into the darkness.

Maka blew her loose hair out of her face, extra pissed that she now had torn pants, a bloodied knee, and a burning desire to kick something in the dick to contend with on top of being overtired and cranky. With a final futile kick at the fence, she skulked back to the mouth of the alley.

In the glow of the streetlight, she saw that Blair, the shop owner, had come outside to see what the commotion was all about. As always, her purplish hair and manicured nails were flawless, her form-fitting v-neck showing off the assets that drew a decent late-night crowd to her little corner market. Maka approached and huffed.

"Sorry I couldn't catch him," she said.

Blair only shook her head, staring wide-eyed at the markings on the side of her building.

Maka continued. "I'll call my dad in the morning, he'll be happy to hit up his contacts at the precinct --"

"No, no," Blair said, finally. "Don't do that!"

"It's okay, they don't know about your side business," Maka said. "He'll be discreet."

The owner waved her claw-like nails in the air. "That's not what I mean, honey-kitten. Did you look at this? Do you know what it is?"

For the first time, Maka stopped to look at the paint on the wall. When she did, her jaw dropped. It wasn't a tag -- it was art. A laughing sun, a bleeding moon, and two silhouettes walking down a twisted, eldritch street. At the corner, a mark like a bemused, smirking face ended in a curl. She must have interrupted him while he was finishing it off.

"The Soul Eater," Maka said, her tone flat.

Blair whipped out her phone and began texting. "I'm telling everyone. Do you know what this means, kitten? Business is about to boom!"

As her friend walked out of the alley with a smile like a cat who ate the canary, Maka sighed and shoved her hands deep in the pockets of her coat.

She would stumble across the biggest anonymous street artist in the country and fail to learn his identity. And she'd called him a paint-huffing troglodyte. Fantastic.

To her credit, he'd been kind of a shithead. _Cankles,_ seriously.

***

The next morning, Kim berated her around mouthfuls of store brand sugar cereal.

"I can't believe you're not taking this case," her pink-haired roommate garbled.

Maka rolled her eyes to the ceiling and heaved a sigh. "There's no _case._ No one hired me. No one's paying."

"Are you -" Kim swallowed thickly. "Are you for real? The _tabloids_ will pay, genius machine. The news. The talk show circuit. You could be the one to reveal the long-hidden identity of Soul Eater. Who knows, maybe he'll even cough up to keep you quiet. This is big money, sweets."

"Okay, first." Maka held up a finger. "I don't work for no guaranteed payout. My time's worth more than that. Second, I stopped taking cases when I decided to go back to school. Third, I have no leads, so it's a moot point."

Kim swept her bowl off their tiny two-seater table and dumped it unceremoniously in the sink. "My ass you have no leads. You talked to the guy."

"I insulted him and he insulted me back."

"Whatever. That's more than virtually anyone's ever had to go on. Besides," Kim leaned over the counter. "I know you can't resist a mystery this juicy."

"I'm not doing it." She made to leave.

"Fine. I'll sleep at Jackie's for a month."

Maka's boots squeaked against the cheap linoleum as she turned around. "You have my attention. Go on."

"God, I taught you to bargain too well. I'll also go talk to our nerd-goblin landlord about getting the radiator fixed," Kim said. "And if you succeed and get a payout, we split 50-50, no negotiation."

"I suppose I can accept those terms in lieu of hard cash. I make no promises, though. He doesn't stay in one place very long."

"Deal," Kim said, slapping her a high five as Maka's phone started to jangle.

She pulled it out. "Damn it, it's my dad."

Kim raised two fingers and backed away. "Peace, friend. I'm off to move my beater and charge way too much for our parking slot to the suckers who come to see the latest mural."

Maka nodded goodbye to her roommate as she hit the speaker option. "Papa, I'm fine, it was no big -"

"MakaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAA," came her papa's overwrought voice over the phone. "Tell me everything about that filthy criminal immediately so I can crush him to smarmy dust with my incredibly masculine hands."

Silently Maka cursed Blair for opening her big Cheshire-grin-sporting face and started plotting a way to extricate herself from this conversation. She had a guerilla painter to locate.

***

Soul Eater struck again the next night. As Maka stared up at his latest piece, she had to begrudgingly admit the guy had talent, even if he was an overhyped douchebag. Probably.

This one must've taken most of the night to complete. A face towered eight feet tall, one half a golden-eyed pretty-boy with three perfect white streaks in his dark hair, the other half a stark white skull mask. The composition was meticulous, perfectly aligned. He must've used some sort of tool to get lines that straight with aerosol paint.

She tightened her hood against the frigid wind swirling down the street, wondering how the artist managed to get onto the roof of the building, paint that portrait, and skedaddle without anyone noticing what he was doing.

The crowd gathered around her probably contained folks that lived in the area, so she decided to start churning the water with some questions.

One particularly stoic dude who never removed his sunglasses was telling her about his night in the most bored tone imaginable when she caught a flash of yellow out of the corner of her eye. She fought her initial instinct to whip her head around, instead carefully raising her gaze from her notebook to check out the newcomer.

She recognized that jacket.

"Arrogant fuckface," she muttered.

"Excuse me?" said Sunglasses Dude.

She snapped her notebook shut. "Sorry, I didn't mean you. Thanks for your time, I appreciate it."

Keeping her movements carefully measured, she merged back into the crowd without drawing attention to herself, coming around behind her mark. He had a hoodie on under his ridiculous leather jacket, so she couldn't get a good look at him. Even so, she took mental note of his height, build, and clothing. Any identifying features. It was better to get the details and put them together without letting the subject know you were on to them. Keep your distance.

She'd never been very good at that rule.

When he broke away from the crowd and walked down the street, she gave him a solid head start before following, hand deep in her coat pocket to grip her yawara stick, just in case. He walked with a lazy, shuffling gait, and even though she adopted all the tailing tricks she had in her repertoire, she needn't have bothered. He was oblivious.

They both turned a corner and she turned to look into a window display as he entered the tea shop across the street. In the glass, she watched him approach the counter, order, and sit at one of the few available tables, waiting for his tea to steep.

What sort of hipster graffiti artist anonymously paints murals all over the country, comes back to admire his handiwork, and then orders _tea?_ Arrogant fuckfaces, that's who.

He still hadn't noticed her, so she risked turning to lean against the glass. Everything she observed about him told her he came from money. His professionally-taught artistic skill, his custom leather jacket, his insistence on stopping at an overpriced cafe in the gentrified part of town. Maybe Kim was right. Maybe he would pay them off to keep their mouths shut. Wouldn't want to ruin his artist-of-the-people image.

For a minute more, she observed him, then made her move, anger welling inside her. When she pulled the hood off his head, he jumped a mile. She saw he had earbuds in, so clearly he hadn't heard her approach. His shock of white hair caught her by surprise for all of a second before she recovered.

"The hell?" he said, pulling out the headphones.

Voice low and dangerous, she said, "How's your tea, Soul Eater?" Before he could react, she whipped up her phone and snapped a picture. A quick glance told her he was about her age, despite the hair. Pale stubble marked his cheeks.

His red eyes narrowed, just a fraction. Must have a recessive albinism gene, she thought.

"What's your problem?" he said.

She dropped her phone into her pocket and leaned on the table, casting her shadow over him. "My problem," she said. "Is dickhead rich kids who think the world is their personal canvas."

He leaned back, completely at ease, and looked her up and down. "That sounds like a personal problem. Not sure what it has to do with me."

Oh, he was better than she'd thought.

Tilting her head to the side, she said, "It is personal. I'll give you that." She pulled her own hood back to reveal her face.

His mouth ticked up at the corner, exposing the sharp point of a canine tooth. He leaned to the side to glance under the table. "Cankles," he said.

"You can't even see my ankles, asshole," she said. Then she smacked him upside the head.

That jarred him. "Hey! That's assault!"

"Call it in. I'd love to talk to Sheriff Free about some illegal wall art I've observed lately."

The couple two tables down paused their conversation to glance around at them. Soul Eater noticed and pulled her down by the wrist until her ear was level with his mouth.

"Not here," he whispered. She shook off the way his warm breath sent goosebumps trailing down her neck.

He stood, pulled up his hood, and tossed a few wadded bills onto the table before brushing past her. She followed him down the road, matching his pace. He turned a corner and stopped beside the most garish, brilliantly orange motorcycle parked on the block. Maka wrinkled her nose. Of course. When he started to climb on, she grabbed his arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" she said.

He twisted out of her grasp. "I'm not saying anything on a busy street. You wanna talk to me, you do it on my terms. My terms are we get out of here."

Maka snorted. "You don't have the upper hand here. I auto-emailed that photo to my account, and I can release it whenever I please. Sounds like you should be working within my terms."

He shrugged, and it was infuriating. In her line of work, usually an approached subject fell all over themselves when they realized they'd been cornered. This guy didn't seem to care one whit that his anonymous cover could be blown.

"If all you wanted was to expose me, you'd do it," he said. "You want answers. So hop on."

"I will not." She widened her stance and crossed her arms.

"Suit yourself. I'm leaving. I'm sure you'll stalk me later." With that, he kicked up the stand and started up the bike.

While he secured his helmet, Maka waged a very messy internal war. She despised the idea of doing anything on this asshole's terms, but he wasn't wrong. She did want answers. What drives some pampered young artist to turn to anonymous street art? It was a mystery worth solving.

With a final groan of frustration, she walked over and swung onto the bike behind him. Like he predicted her decision, he handed her a helmet before she even sat down.

"Hold on," he said.

"In your dreams, you -" She didn't get the opportunity to finish before he took off and she had to grab the back of his jacket so she didn't go ass over teakettle. Seething, she released him as soon as she had her balance and gripped the passenger handles instead.

They wove through the city, through parts of town she knew and parts she rarely tread. He seemed as familiar with the territory as she was, barely pausing to gauge where to turn. Before long, they reached a stretch of road near a park, where he mercifully pulled over so she could jump off the bike and shove his helmet back at him. Her body felt colder without his nearby and she pulled her jacket tighter around herself.

"We're here," she said. "So talk."

"Anyone ever tell you that you have a short fuse?" he said, stowing his gear.

"Constantly. Talk."

In answer, he nodded toward the park. "Let's talk in there."

If he put her off one more time, she swore she'd kick him in the knee with one of her clunky boots. Thankfully, when they got inside the green space, he plopped down at a bench overlooking a fountain, laying back and gazing out with half-lidded eyes. A tall curved wall etched with writing stretched behind the arcing water. With a sigh, she sat next to him.

"You're clearly a skilled stalker," he drawled. "So tell me what you already know."

"Well," she said. "You're classically trained. You've got money, or at least come from it, and have likely been to art school. You feel strongly about your work, but are unwilling to take credit for it, which indicates that you're either in it for the rush or uncomfortable in the spotlight. You have little consideration for the property and time of others, probably because you've never had to worry about it. You're snarky, but guarded, so it's probably a defense mechanism. And you drink Earl Grey Creme like a dickweed." She gave him a sardonic sidelong look. "Did I leave anything out?"

His pale eyebrows were raised so high she was surprised they didn't vanish into his mess of hair. He stared at her for a second, then burst out laughing. If he hoped to throw her off, it wouldn't work. She kept her expression neutral and waited for him to calm his hysteria.

Finally, he wiped at the corner of his eye and let out a last _ha_ before responding. "Not bad. I mean, you're not totally wrong, but you're not totally right, either. Who are you, some sort of profiler?"

"Just a girl who spent too many summers interning for a private investigator. What, pray tell, did I get wrong?"

He tilted his head back, keeping his eyes closed in the bright sunlight. "I disagree that I do anything like a dickweed, for starters, but that's subjective. I only took a year of art school before I dropped out and stopped accepting my family's money. And I most definitely do consider the time and property of others. I choose my locations very carefully."

Maka huffed and flopped her elbows over the backrest. "Didn't seem that way when you were tagging up my friend's shop."

He peeked at her out of one eye. "That neighborhood usually see a lot of foot traffic?"

"No," she said. "Mostly just residents."

"How was it this morning?" he said.

"A madhouse," she responded. "My roommate charged a fee for our parking stall. Blair's had a line out the shop."

He was quiet for a long moment and she realized what she'd said and frowned at him.

"Okay, if you think you're doing some sort of Robin Hood 'give to the poor' shit, you can go soak your head. You're not that special, first of all, and bringing an influx of gawkers to a scene isn't fixing the problem. The area might get a boost of outsider cash, but we have to deal with hipster shitheads coming in to Instagram your mural and clog up our street. It's not sustaining, and we didn't ask for it."

He held up his hands. "I didn't say it was a perfect solution. I'm just doing what I can with what I've got, and all I've got is art that hipster shitheads eat up."

"Oh come off it," she said.

"What?"

"This false modesty thing. You know your art is good."

When he didn't respond, she glanced over. He was watching her, his expression unreadable. In her earlier diatribe, she'd conveniently forgotten to mention that once you got past his unusual markers, he was undoubtedly good-looking. If you were into scruffy nerf herder types.

She squirmed under his gaze. "Stop it."

"Sorry," he said. "You're just the first person to say so."

"Shut up. The entire country says so. You're a pop-culture talking point."

"No, I mean..." He leaned forward and rubbed his neck. "The first person to tell me, directly, that my art is good. And you don't like me, so I know you're not lying."

She stared. "I don't... _not_ like you. Okay, I thought you were an ass, and until this very moment, I figured you were some spoiled trust fund baby taking a whirl on the wild side. Maybe I was wrong."

"Maybe."

"So tell me," she said. "How did you end up painting walls instead of finishing art school?"

He kicked a foot toward the fountain. "You know the name of this park?"

"Sure," she said. "Francesca Evans Memorial Park."

Giving he a thumbs up, he said, "What if I told you Ms. Francesca Evans was my great-grandmother?"

Maka blinked at him. Then blinked again. "Your great-grandmother was Francesca Evans. The world renowned painter." She spoke in sarcastic monotone.

He shrugged.

"Which would make you a member of the Evans family," she continued. "All of whom exhibit in no fewer than four international galleries apiece. They're artistic royalty."

He arched an eyebrow at her.

"Wes Evans is currently exhibiting at The Met," she said. "Those Evans'. You're asking what I'd say if you told me that's who you are."

"That's what I asked, yeah." He scratched his nose with his thumb.

Maka got up and walked away.

"Hey, wait!" he said, stumbling after her. When he blocked her path, she blew a loose strand of hair out of her eyes and glared at him.

"You're expecting me to believe that a member of one of the most prestigious artistic families in the world dropped out of school to be an anonymous graffiti artist?" she said. "This may be a surprise to you, since I'm sure that line works on all the girls, but I'm not buying what you're selling."

"No, that's not..." he stammered. "Jesus. Okay, look, I told you that so you'd understand the legacy I come from, and maybe you'd understand why I thought my work would be better suited for alleys and street corners. My brother creates universes on his canvases. In comparison, I doodle in the margins of notebooks. I never thought it would garner a following."

Maka narrowed her eyes at him. "It was a mistake for me to come here. I'm leaving." Her voice challenged him to stop her. For a second, she thought he would, but then he stood aside.

As she brushed past, he said, "I'll be here tonight for my last piece before I leave town. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

"Don't count on it," she said over her shoulder, pushing away the strange twisting feeling in her gut.

"Can I at least give you a ride -" he started.

"I'll catch the bus," she snapped, turning at the arched entrance and picking up her pace. She couldn't quite catch her breath.

***

Kim sat at the kitchen table counting a roll of bills when Maka walked into their apartment. Her eyes glittered when she looked up.

"So?" Kim said, leaning forward over the table. "Did you find the guy?"

Maka paused just before hanging up her coat. Her phone hung heavily in the coat's pocket, and all she had to do was fish it out. That picture could probably pay for three months' rent, at least. She bit her lip.

"No, sorry," she said. "Trail's cold. The guy's like a ghost."

Her roommate visibly deflated. "Damn. If you can't do it, no one can. Man, that would have been a sick payday though. At least we made some change from the parking space." She tossed a small bunch of bills and Maka caught it. "That's your cut. I'm giving you 25%, since it was my idea and I'm the one who did the hustling."

"That's fair," Maka said. "I'm gonna turn in. Long day."

"Yeah, yeah." Kim gave a noncommittal wave and counted her cash again. "Tell you what, I'll go stay at Jackie's for tonight anyway. Consider it thanks for the work."

Maka paused outside her bedroom door, insides burning with guilt. "Thanks."

Her room felt freezing. After double-checking the window and throwing on two extra sweaters, she dug out her ancient laptop and booted it up, hoping that the corner bodega at the edge of her wi-fi range hadn't password protected their connection lately.

They hadn't. Score. She clicked "Booze of Eibon" and logged in before dipping into her father's P.I. resources to dig up some information.

Twenty minutes later, she stared at a years-old family portrait of the Greenwich Evans family -- mother, father, and two sons. The elder stood tall, a stunning if slightly stilted smile on his face. The younger's shoulders slouched very slightly, his mouth tight-lipped and serious as he trained his ruby eyes on the camera.

The kid in the photo was probably eleven or twelve at the time it was taken, but there could be no mistake. It was definitely the man she'd spoken with earlier.

"Holy shit," she whispered.

***

Minutes before two A.M., Maka followed the sound of hissing paint to the curved wall behind the fountain. She made her steps echo loud enough that he'd hear her coming this time. His mouth ticked up in a smile, more genuine than in any of the pictures she'd found of him.

"I wondered if you'd show up," he said.

She twisted the ends of her scarf in her hands. "Yeah, well. Couldn't sleep, and didn't have anything better to do."

"I'm very good at hiding my emotions, so don't let my air of nonchalance fool you into thinking that didn't sting," he said, his smile never fading.

The park's night lighting was minimal, casting barely enough light to see by. Maka came closer, keeping her eyes and ears peeled for interlopers.

"This is an interesting choice of venue," she said. "A little off your beaten path, isn't it? Why deface your great-grandma's park?"

He rattled a can and went back to work. "Less defacing, more an homage to an incredible woman. Besides, it'll piss my family off something fierce."

"You rich kids," she sighed. "Can't resist sticking it to mummy and daddy."

"Former rich kid, and yeah, true." He made several short bursts with a darker color, adding shadowing. "Consider this Soul Eater's last hurrah."

She whirled to look at him, eyes wide and pigtails swinging. "What are you talking about?"

He dropped the spray paint onto his bag and took a few steps back, reviewing his work. "Something you said today. Made me think maybe it's time to let go of the anonymity thing and do things on my own terms."

Maka tried to respond, but her words tripped over one another in her mouth. "I didn't mean..."

"It's cool," he said. "Besides, I hear someone got the scoop and is going to reveal my identity to the media. Bet they'll pay out big for something like that."

Maka shook her head. "No, I wouldn't. I mean, I didn't. Your secret's safe with me."

He grinned at her. "It doesn't have to be a secret anymore. If someone's going to get paid for it, might as well be the only person who's ever managed to track me down."

She had no words. That was highly unusual. Maka always had words. But this time they wouldn't come.

Instead, she took three steps forward and kissed Soul full on the mouth. An instant later, she broke away. He looked like she'd clocked him with a two-by-four.

"I, um," she said. "That was... Sorry. What I meant to say was, uh, thank you."

In response, he reached out and pulled her back in. She squeaked and stumbled a bit before sinking into the kiss. He smelled like paint and something familiar.

An eon later, they came up for air. Maka gave an elated, embarrassed laugh and looked away.

"What did you paint, anyway?" she asked, looking at the dimly-lit painting closely for the first time. When she did, her breath fluttered in her throat.

The painting was of her, fierce and determined, looking to something in the distance like it was her Mount Everest. Her hair and coat swirled around her, and she held a red and black scythe, the blade curving around her almost in an embrace.

Soul cleared his throat. "Don't ask me where I got the idea. You just struck me as a warrior." Then he said, "Oh, I forgot something."

Still stunned, she watched as he picked up his paint and sprayed his signature at the corner. Only this time, beneath his grinning logo, he signed it "Soul."

The half-moon shone half a grin down on them as she grabbed him by the jacket for another kiss, the park silent and still in the early morning. In a few hours' time, she'd have a lot of questions from friends to answer, but in the meantime, she had this.

She recognized that familiar smell now.

He smelled like her mother's champak blooms.


	3. Stuck in the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is very loosely based off Ray Bradbury’s short story “All Summer in a Day” because reasons. It’s much happier, though. Enjoy!

The sun never shined in the desert. She'd been told that's all it did once, long ago. But now there was nothing but rain. Days and nights and months and years of endless rain. The salt flats became a salt lake, the desert plants rotting and waterlogged.

All day, the meteorologists were abuzz on the radio. For the first time in seven years, the sun would finally make an appearance. They'd been promising for weeks, saying the atmospheric conditions were shifting, that the clouds would break and bright golden rays would pierce through, making the sand sparkle like diamond. Long-dormant flowers would spring open, gratefully soaking up the light and painting the world in a riot of color.

Tomorrow would be the day, and Maka could not tear herself away from the windows, not even to read. She was fourteen years old, and the sun had only shone twice in her life -- once days after she was born, and once when she was seven. She'd missed it when that witch Medusa locked her away in the closet as punishment for being too headstrong and asking too many questions.

Medusa didn't teach there anymore. Not since the other teachers found out about Crona.

Maka spread her fingers wide over the cool glass, watching the heat of her skin condense and leave a perfect print of her hand in its wake. Sid would probably scold her for leaving a mark, but it was her night on cleaning crew, anyway, so what did it matter? What did anything matter but seeing the sun?

Out of nowhere, a hand bonked her on the side of the head before its owner threw his arm around her shoulders.

"Whatcha doin', bookworm?" Black Star said, wiping a grubby finger over her handprint. "Supper's in five minutes. You can't eat ennui, so come join me for dumplings instead."

Maka shrugged him off. "I regret teaching you that word. I just don't want to miss it. Not even a minute."

Black Star playfully punched her bicep a shade too hard. Control had never been his strong suit. "You're not gonna miss it. If I have to reach up there and wrestle the bastard into submission to make sure you get your day in the light, I'll do it. Just watch."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You're going to fight the sun now?"

He flexed. "If I gotta. It's just a basic yellow star, and you know I'm the biggest star."

Shaking her head, she pulled herself away from the window and walked down the hall toward the sound of the dinner chimes. "You ever heard of Icarus?" she said.

"Nope," he said, falling into step beside her. "Sounds like a foot fungus."

"Keep an eye on your wings, is what I mean," she said.

"Yadda yadda something wings. Race you to the servers!" He took off through the cafeteria door, pelting toward the line with such speed that she was certain he'd --

A resounding crash reached her from the other side of the room and she cringed, not at all jealous of the reprimands Black Star would be dealing with for the next week. She should probably give everyone a solid few minutes to calm down before she attempted to get her nightly meal.

She scanned the room, waving to Tsugumi and Meme before she spotted a boy slouched at a table in the corner by himself. He stretched out along the bench, back up against the wall, scratching something in a notebook. With a small smile, she made her way over.

"Scoot up," she said, and Soul pulled up his feet, his eyes never leaving his notebook as he worried the cap of a pen between his teeth.

Maka sat in the now-vacant bench seat. "Composing again?"

"Uhn," Soul grunted at her.

She folded her hands and waited patiently. Trying to get him to talk when he was in the middle of a brain wave never resulted in quality conversation, and it made him grumpy. It'd taken her a few months to learn that.

Soul was a transfer. He'd been at another institute, before, and he didn't like to talk about it, so she stopped asking. Two years ago, he showed up at Shibusen, sullen and alone, and they'd taken him in. Most of the students had been there all their lives, like Maka and Black Star. Soul was a new face, and a new face meant new stories.

Maka glanced around the room, twitching her foot. At last, Soul took the cap from his mouth and set his notebook on the table.

"You'll wear a hole in the floor," he grumbled.

In answer, she gently kicked at him under the table and stuck out her tongue. "You finish your meal already?" she said.

"Yeah. I wondered if you'd even be able to eat tonight."

She lowered her voice and leaned in closer, their arms nearly touching. "Tell me again?"

He gave a low laugh. "You've heard it a million times. Nothing's changed."

"Please," she said, making her eyes do the thing that always weakened his resolve.

It worked, and he sighed. "It's like a coin in the sky, big and bright," he said. "The air goes blue, more blue than you can imagine, and the clouds are soft and white instead of heavy and gray. It's so  _quiet_  without the rain falling everywhere, at least until everyone comes outside. Your skin warms up like you're sitting by a fire, but it's different. Like your body's drinking it up until it can't hold any more."

Maka closed her eyes and breathed in deep, trying to imagine it. She asked everyone for stories of the sun, but no one made her picture it better than Soul could.

"What does it smell like?" she whispered.

"Sweet," he said. "And warm. Like those berries hydroponics grows sometimes, but stronger and more... real."

She opened her eyes and turned her head. He'd sat up and leaned in closer to her while her eyes were closed, so they were only inches apart. Soul swallowed and looked down, and she couldn't be sure, but she thought she felt a little of that warmth he'd described.

Black Star plunked down in the seat across from them and dropped a plate in front of her with a clatter. Both she and Soul startled so badly they nearly toppled over backward.

"Damn it, Star," she spat at him.

Her honorary brother was already stuffing his face full of dumplings, but that didn't stop him from shifting his food to one cheek and garbling at her. "I brought you your dinner. You're welcome."

With a huff, she begrudgingly tucked in to her food. Soul and Black Star chatted and joked back and forth for most of the meal while she occasionally joined in when she wasn't eating. Soul's leg rested against hers under the table and she didn't think to move it.

After dinner, Black Star took off to meet Tsubaki for sparring practice while she and Soul did their chores, cleaning dishes and washing windows. She paused before wiping away the handprint she'd left earlier, staring out into the inky, rain-streaked night as if the sun might pop on like a light bulb.

"Tomorrow," Soul said softly.

"I know," she said. "I know."

He walked her to the dormitories and they paused outside the room she shared with Tsubaki. Sensing her nerves, Soul reached out and took her hand. It had become such a natural thing for them to do in the two years since he'd come that they barely noticed it anymore. They didn't have to ask what the other was thinking. They just knew.

"I'll come wake you at dawn," he said. "Promise."

She laughed, the sound high and tittering like a bird. "You never wake up at dawn. You barely wake up at noon."

"I will tomorrow," he said. "Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

He gave her hand a squeeze before letting go and slouching off to his own room. As Maka gathered her night things and ventured down the hall to the bathroom, she wondered if she'd be able to sleep at all.

Hours or seconds later, she woke with a start. None of the lights were on, and she heard Tsubaki's deep breathing nearby. The thinnest strip of gray-green beneath her door told her the day was coming soon. A knock sounded, a touch insistent, and she realized that's what had woken her.

In a flash, she rolled out of bed and whipped open the door. True to his word, Soul stood there, and he let out a snorting laugh and grinned when he saw her.

"Did you go to sleep fully clothed?" he asked.

"Of course I did," she said, breathless, as she craned her neck around him to check the windows, which were still depressingly dark gray. "If you think I'm wasting a second of sunshine, you're wrong."

"I figured," he said, holding up a toothbrush and a bottle of water for her, which she gratefully accepted. She brushed as they walked, her eyes continually darting to the windows.

The students gathered in the entry hall slowly over the next hour, their voices going from a gentle hum to a dull roar. Teachers strode among them, handing out precious sunscreen and lecturing everyone on its use, reminding them that their skin would be highly sensitive and burns could be dangerous. Maka thought it smelled like chemical-soaked bananas, but she didn't care.

As the morning stretched on, the chatter turned nervous.

"What if they predicted the wrong day?" Kilik whispered nearby.

"What if it doesn't come at all?" Harvar whispered back.

Maka's stomach twisted into knots as she pushed all such thoughts away. It would come. It had to come. She'd waited so long.

Soul put a hand on her shoulder and she gripped it.

Then, so imperceptibly that no one noticed at first, the voices began to die away. Perhaps it was the slightest change in the light, or a shift in the air. The hall went completely still, and Maka realized for the first time what this was: silence. True silence. As if all her life she'd been surrounded by static, and now the static disappeared.

The windows began to glow, and she held her breath.

The headmaster and her Papa threw the front doors open wide, and the students moved as a single body, filtering out the doors in wonder. The grayness of the morning shredded away, the clouds breaking up above their heads as they all turned skyward and saw, some for the very first time, strips of the purest blue.

Soul had been right. The world stood so still.

Then the last cloud burned away, and the sun spilled over the ground like liquid gold, sparking off the waterlogged sand and rushing toward them in the space of a heartbeat.

When it hit her skin, Maka gasped. No heat lamp, no fire, no blanket or touch could recreate this warmth. Her hair stood on end, her soul opening wide to drink in sundrops until it burst with joy.

From somewhere to her right, a bellowing whoop tore open the crowd's stupor and Black Star leapt eight stairs in a single bound. He hit the ground running, making for a field where the leaves and flowers were already unfurling into colors so bright it almost hurt to look at them.

In an instant, the crowd broke apart, laughter and howls shattering the quiet to a thousand pieces. Bodies moved like water all around them, parting like they were a rock in the middle of a river.

Then she and Soul were the only two people left standing at the entrance, eyes wide in wonder. In a true show of strength, Maka looked away from the light of life and straight into Soul's eyes. They glinted back at her.

"Ready for your day in the sun?" he said.

She nodded. It was all she could do.

And they walked, hand in hand, down the steps and into the light.


	4. Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the title says. A little short thing for Day 4.

When the moon's full in winter, it shines through his window just right, spilling over the cheap cotton sheets and turning them to silver silk. The heat's always full blast because she hates the cold, and even deserts can freeze. So the sheet is twisted down around her naked hips, baring the place where her spine dips. She sleeps on her stomach, ribs expanding and collapsing in slow motion.

Her mouth hangs open, breath rasping out, and anyone else might think she looks inelegant, caught in this unconscious moment.

To him, she can only ever be beautiful. Only he knows that beauty goes deeper than skin, and tissue, and bone, and marrow. Down past the matter, between the atoms. It spreads to her soul, and he gets to taste it whenever they resonate. For that, he'll be forever grateful.

He sits up on his elbows beside her. A smile touches his lips as he follows the lines of her back with his eyes. He'd memorized it long ago, between dressing wounds and kissing them, but he never gets tired of looking. Scars of every color cut across pale skin; pink and red and white. Even one black, stretched between her shoulder blades above her heart. Anywhere still unmarked sports freckles, moles, sun spots.

Carefully, he rolls to the side, silently sliding open the bedside table drawer. From inside, he pulls out a felt-tip pen and pops the cap off. He rests his wrist in the center of her back, testing the deepness of her sleep. When she doesn't stir, he brings the pen to the edge of a scar on her left shoulder and begins to draw.

He's never been one for tradition, so instead of the typical staff, he follows the lines already on her skin, letting them lead him to every dot and mark, naturally folding them into his work wherever they appear. An hour passes, then two. A few times, her breath rattles and her muscles tense, but she always relaxes back onto the mattress they've shared for the last year. He writes. And writes. And writes. All the way down to the base of her spine and the curve of her right hip.

In the morning, the sun warms her awake, creeping up her body until she sighs and stretches. She sits upright, finding him snoring gently beside her, a small puddle of drool on his pillow. A little huff of a laugh escapes her and she has another stretch, yawning and glancing over her shoulder at the window, where the sheer curtains flutter from the vent beneath them.

It's then that she catches her reflection in the mirror, eyes widening.

He wakes to her squawks.

"What did you do?" she says, twisting impossibly to try and look at the notes scattered across her back.

"'S a song," he slurs, tongue still thick with sleep. "Here. Lemme play it for you."

In spite of her grumbling protests, he pulls her down into a hungry kiss and the fight goes out of her instantly, replaced by a humming need. She relaxes against him and they trade a sigh back and forth through their parted lips.

His skilled fingers trace each note, remembering, and the music echoes between their souls. All morning, he plays her the song of her skin.


End file.
